


To Love Someone

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [11]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 5+1 Things, Cuddling, England-Centric, Fluff, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Prompt Fill, RusAmeHoliday, some - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8814394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #11: Cuddling
[A five and one fic; England centric]





	

**Author's Note:**

> [cute fluff; nearly cried as I wrote it, I was listening to Tori Kelly’s “Hallelujah” from Sing]
> 
> [The last part was almost too much for my emotions. I think it was well deserved, after days of writing angsty piece after angsty piece]

  **Five Times England took care of America**

 

**One.**

 

            He heard the floorboards creak just outside the door to parlor, and he sighed but refused to close his book. The presence just outside the hallway entrance lingered there, uncertainly, for a few minutes, and he was getting ready to call out to it, make it known he was aware, when soft, sock-softened footsteps signaled the presence’s move to cross the threshold. He glanced towards the portal out of the corner of his eyes and felt his heart soften and the way innocent blue eyes gazed at him uncertainly, hesitantly.

            With any other colony, he would’ve insisted the younger go back to his own bed. He would’ve gone up with the little colony, tucked him in tight, maybe even read him a story if he was in the mood, but he would’ve made sure that the little one slept there. It wasn’t healthy for toddler colonies to be seeking out their colonizer so often for such affection; it created misconceptions.

            But even as he tried to steel himself to send the new little colony back to his own bed, he caught sight of hesitant blue eyes – hesitant and uncertain in a way he’d never seen the little one – and felt his heart melt. He shrugged off his housecoat, setting the book down on the side table to pull off the sleeves, before wrapping the warm, wooly material around the surprised little nation-to-be.

            Blue-eyes gazed at him in surprised delight, even as they slid closed, drifting towards slumber, secure in the warm embrace of his guardian.

            And even when he felt himself shiver at the dropping temperature in the parlor room, with the fire dying and the wind creeping in through the cracks he hadn’t yet plastered over, he refused to move and wake the young child in his lap, engulfed in all the warmth, protection, and love England could offer.

            He silently treasured the knowledge that he _could_.

 

**Two.**

 

            His child was ever so predictable sometimes, he thought, somewhat exasperated. America was exactly where he thought the boy would be. He was sleeping gently in the apartments down the block from where he knew the so-called American Congress was convening, debating on a decision that would mark a division in their relations for the rest of their lives.

            He ghosted through the hallways, his boots making no sound as they strode past loose floorboards and squeaky hinges, making his way with only one destination in mind.

            And there he was, curled into a ball on the too-small cot in the too-small room in the too-crowded city, wearing a too-big shirt that didn’t fit right, and a pair of too-small trousers, like he’d just walked in and collapsed on the too-thin mattress after a too-long day. He moved closer, drawn to the young nation-to-be the way the soft ground beckoned a ripe apple to break from its nurturing bearer and drop away….

            The shirt was damp, see through, and America shivered lightly as a cool breeze gusted through the fragile, broken glass, rattling it effortlessly. He usually active little colony curled closer into himself – so unlike his normal nighttime behavior that it tweaked the corner of worry in his mind – and his shirt shifted upwards.

            He saw the marks, the scars – the wounds every nation bore; the inscription of their history carved brutally onto land made flesh – and bit back a nearly overwhelming tide of grief and rage. This was his child – his little golden hearted, wheat haired, sky-eyed dreamer child – who bore wounds that _he_ was inflicting; he, who had once sworn that not a single blemish of war would stain his child’s precious soft skin.

            But his child had denied him his rule, his protection. And so he had to deny him his mercy. He drew the blanket he had brought – woolen and soft, comfortable in the light chill of an early Philadelphia spring night – over his little boy, tucking in the folds tightly, even with his hands shaking. Alfred would wonder, come morning, where it had come from, but as much as he wished, he could not wait here and watch him awaken.

            No matter how much it hurt. (Any of it)

 

**Three.**

 

            He hadn’t been sure that anything would hurt him more than that day in the rain, a little less than a century ago. He should stop betting with himself.

            But it couldn’t be helped, he sighed, biting back the vicious emotions that rose to the surface as he stepped softly into the bare room. It was dark – lit only by lantern light and nothing more – and the scent wafting about reminded him of the trips he’d made to infirmary rooms, where the poor souls who everyone knew wouldn’t make it would be, even if no one wanted to tell them so…

            And he abruptly cut off that thought.

            He was so fragile, his boy; lying there in the bed limply, unconscious, arms cuffed to the strong bedframe to protect himself from harm. The President, though suspicious initially, had been relieved when he had come under the cover of a diplomatic mission – reparation for the boat that they’d sent the Confederacy – and demanded to see America. He hadn’t known what condition the other had been in, hadn’t dared assume a thing. Some part of him wished he hadn’t asked.

            But the other part of him squashed the presumptuous snob and remembered brilliant smiles and happy, healthy laughter.

            The silence was heavy, heady, and unnerving.

            He eyed the collection of bandages on the side with some amount of suspicion. They certainly looked like someone had been in and out with some measure of regularity, despite the President saying that no one had been permitted access to the hidden room after one of America’s episodes.

            But, no matter, he could worry about that later. Later, when his boy was whole, happy, and strong enough to be angry – to be furious – at him for having his people, and France’s, support the very states that were tearing him apart.

            He gently brushed the skin beneath the jagged, vicious, blood red cut that wound around his former colony’s waist, almost completely. And felt a small part of him break, even as he pulled the stitching equipment closer to him.

            _My silly child_ , he thought sadly, _this was what I wanted to keep you from_.

 

**Four.**

 

            He was so strong, even in his sleep; he refused to release the tension that plagued him as his boys – _his_ children – went into combat to finish a war that had nothing to do with them. He wondered if he should feel guilty about the relief that had come to him when it had been announced that his little boy would be getting involved; that Japan had attacked him from behind, had betrayed the trust the young, naïve nation had given him, and assaulted one of his to-be states.

            He wondered if the growing worry in the pit of his stomach was only about his guilt, and not the warning of something to come. He wondered if it was going to be another burden for those too slim shoulders to bear.

            The sound of shells crashing and bullets flying outside was commonplace. They’d learnt to ignore it easily enough when they went off duty, sleep a commodity that came all too easily to the trained soldier. But America’s sleep was uneasy, despite the strength he wielded in his slumber.

            But there was no housecoat nearby to draw and shield him in front of a warm hearth; no lullaby he could hum that would ease his silent sorrows.

            And even as he removed the thin blanket from his cot to drape it across those too-burdened, too-slim shoulders, he wished it would be different.

 

**Five.**

 

            It had been such a long time since America had slept knowing he was there, watching over him silently. His hand carded through golden locks softly, mindfully avoiding the bandage that wrapped around his forehead twice over, carefully aware of the twining wheat crown they concealed. There were dried tear tracks on soft cheeks, noticeable even as his littlest brother pressed his face into the soft fabric of his trousers, from where he was sitting, lying against the headboard and letting the younger curl into him. There was a hand clenched in the sheets further down, a white-knuckled grip holding true even in the supposed blessing that sleep would be right now.

            The bulk of the bandages – swathes of white and beige against the abnormally pale tint of America’s skin – were obvious under the light gown the superpower wore, concealing strikes of brilliant, bloody crimson, and he knew that sleep was far from a blessing right now.

            He brushed a hand gently down the bandaged shoulders, pausing faintly at the whimper that emerged from the younger to move his hand back to safer, less painful territory. He hummed softly, the memory of an old nursery song he used to sing to put his charge to sleep prevalent in his mind. He could feel the tension lining the young nation’s face smooth out, and the line of his shoulders slump, just a bit. The unconsciousness seemed more like a natural sleep rather than a drug induced slumber, and he kept humming, remembering better days.

            Days where skin had been unscarred, life had breathed within sky eyes, and innocence gleamed.

            Another set of eyes watched him silently, unnoticed, as he hummed. Violets eyed the sleeping figure gently, emotion filling them as the figure turned away, and let the two be. He could come visit another time. It was England that America needed right now.

 

**(And the one time…**

 

            He growled, moving through the airport while composing a rant in his head while he stormed through the crowded, panicked halls of the terminal. Their meeting had been in America this time around, and most of the G8 had the unfortunate chance of scheduling their flights back home around the same time. Which meant, he thought darkly, that almost all of the G8 were stuck in one of America’s airports – overcrowded in the holiday season, with regular travelers and vacationers alike panicking and the airport staff _also_ trying not to panic – as a sudden blizzard had stranded them within walking distance of each other. It had started off as a light snow, with equally light flight delays, even though America – for once – had tried to convince them of the seriousness of the situation as they grumbled, but carried on unmolested. But before long, it had become apparent that they were all going to be in trouble. All the incoming flights had been forced to land at airports farther away, and all outgoing flights had been grounded until further notice.

            And in the time it had taken most of the G8 – save Japan, who, by some random chance, had booked his ticket a day later than all of them on accident, and was comfortably lodged in his warm hotel room while the rest of them panicked in a freezing, overcrowded airport – to realize the seriousness of their situation, America had conveniently vanished.

            _Convenient, my arse_ , he huffed to himself mentally. America had probably known what would come his way, and fled early on, leaving them to languish in their own panic. Not that he blamed the young nation, he thought absently as he eyed a nearby Dunkin Donuts stand with some disdain, that was what he would do if they’d been in London. He certainly didn’t have the patience to deal with all the panicking nations, even if it would’ve been easier for them to get back to their homes from his airport than it was all the way across the damned pond.

            But he would’ve made some excuse at least, or offered to lodge them at the hotels near the airport itself. There were shuttles that ran early on which they could’ve used. It wouldn’t have been a long trip at all, and it would’ve solved all his dilemmas. His little brat of a brother had just vanished.

            An hour, a mess, two passengers’ sobbing breakdowns, and a diversion later, and it was inside a Starbucks lounge where he found him. Or rather, he should say, through the shock in his mind, he found _them_.

            Because, wrapped around America in an unmistakably loving, gentle, yet possessive embrace, was Russia. And England felt something in his brain crack and shatter.

            _America and…and Russia?!_

            The thought chased itself around in his mind, building up with its incredulity and the slightest hints of rage and injustice.

            But as he moved closer, standing in front of the fireplace casting shadows, he felt his heart soften, and his rage melt away. America’s cheek was pressed into the warmth of Russia’s knit scarf, nuzzling into it whenever he shifted in his sleep, his glasses askew, and the curl of a content smile on his lips barely visible from where he’d turned into the other nation’s neck. Russia’s coat-covered but undoubtedly strong arms were holding him in place on the other man’s lap, keeping him from accidentally shifting off and falling onto the solid, hardwood floor. His lips twitched at the thought, remembering how many times his active little colony had rolled off of his bed and onto the floor with a loud thump that had made him think they’d had an intruder. And then he’d burst into Alfred’s room and find him slumbering peacefully on the floor, hair and gown askew, with bruises on his side of impact that would be gone by morning, and stare.

            America’s face twitched some, and he let out a soft noise of discontent along with a shiver, and England watched, fascinated, as Russia himself shifted a bit, pulling the other closer to the warmth he was emitting, and America’s face smoothed out again. But _America_ had returned to the depth of his slumber; Russia, on the other hand, had woken from the loss of warmth that had come when England had blocked the fireplace, and blinked blearily into startled, contemplative green eyes.

            Green eyes eyed him contemplatively, before narrowing protectively. England realized what had woken Russia – and had the potential to wake America, though it was unlikely, honestly – and stepped to the side of the fireplace, allowing its warmth to seep into the two nations entwined together on the lounge couch. The island nation could feel violet eyes watching him as he came closer, tugging a blanket someone had left from the sofa next to the one the two were occupying. He walked closer to the two, glared at the violet-eyed nation for a brief second, before nodding briskly.

            Russia blinked, startled, and England felt the corner of his lips twitch in maybe-amusement. _Good_ , he thought, knowing he’d thrown Russia off balance at the casual acceptance. Russia had been expecting more of a fuss, a fight, he knew, even though it had been centuries since he’d been responsible for America, he’d _always_ blocked the other nations from becoming overly friendly with the fledgling nation as long as he could. And being an Empire, it had been easy, then.

            He wondered when this had happened; when his bright, fair-haired, golden-hearted little brat had fallen in love (because he could deny it to himself as long as he wanted, but there was no denying the devotion in Russia’s eyes, or the gentle way he cradled the younger nation, as if holding something precious in his arms; he’d always suspected there had been something between the two, but it had never ventured anywhere near the truth).

            He spread the blanked gently between his hands, musing on its surprising softness and wooly warmth, before moving towards America, feeling Russia’s surprised gaze on him all the while. He waited until Russia loosened his hold before he spread the blanket on the younger nation, tucking in the folds into the tight spaces of Russia’s grip. He smoothed the fuzzy, wooly material over the younger nation, double checking all the loose spaces, and making sure there wasn’t any spot – save his face – that was uncovered by the warmth. Finally, when he was content with his fussing, he stepped back silently, watching Russia take on his role, securing loose folds of the blanket when America shifted, or tugging it tighter to keep in the warmth. And smiled.

            _I may not approve_ , he thought silently, watching as America snuggled into the warmth of the blanket as Russia wrapped his arms tighter around him, feeling a gentle warmth grow in his heart, _but he does._

_And really, that’s what matters, isn’t it?_

**…he let someone else do it.)**


End file.
